


kissed by fire and snow.

by HelenaKey



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Animal Transformation, Dreams vs. Reality, F/M, Idealization of Others, Inspired by Music, Magical Realism, Misconceptions About Reality, Nightmares, Rape Aftermath, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-31
Updated: 2015-08-31
Packaged: 2018-04-30 12:35:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5164067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HelenaKey/pseuds/HelenaKey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I was promised to another.” She says in a whisper. “I was promised to another, when Lord Bolton's bastard wrapped his cape around my shoulders.” She says, and he growls. She dreams with snow and a white dress, and barking pups resting on her lap. She lies to herself again, and he growls.</p>
            </blockquote>





	kissed by fire and snow.

Still lies her body on the marital bed, as casket devoid of life and breath. The night is dark, and over the nightstand the candles are slowly extinguishing. Burning as a dying flame, as internal fire born in the womanly ailment of forced surrender. She bleeds and she cries, and she barely breathes at the memory of her shredded body; of the man thrusting inside her, swelling inside her, in his search for pleasure. She's alone again, it occurs to her, while circling her hurting frame with hands kissed by snow. Alone under the roof of a cruel man; with no family, no friends, no allies. She's alone again, and she knows it.

She tries to stand, for the pain is too much, and the blood is too much, and the burning seed of a cruel man it's sliding between her legs. She puts a foot on the cold floor, and then the other, and when she moves forwards her body gets caught between the stained sheets. She is fragile, she's made of crystal; and when she falls to the floor, she breaks. Her cry is long and pitched; it goes forward in pale momentum to the highest note, it is presented in vibrant tone and then goes down, and it is heard no more.

She lays there in the night, so scared, so exposed. She is covered by a veil of darkness, as lurid petals from the blackest rose. The glowing moon looks down at her, peeking through a blanket of grey clouds. _I could touch it_ , she thinks, _it seems so close, but it's so far, so far_ … And the moon caresses her in delight, and it's mirrored on her skin; on her skin that is cold and white and soft, as a pale piece of quartz reflecting the light.

Slowly, she stands. She is rage and confusion and shame, and she searches for the window, and the rough caress of its frame; searches for the moon in the starry sky, beyond the clouds and the snow and the cold winds of the north. She dreams with fire and blood, with screams in the night and the woods of the gods. She dreams with a pointy knife and her father's callous hand, also kissed by the snow; she hears the short and painful cry of a direwolf pup.

She grips the frame of the window, and watches the moon; bright beacon shinning in the distance. Might have been her voice the wail of a lost soul, if there was not in the sad cry certain ferocity, certain vehement hunger. She puts a foot in the cold wood and grips the window frame tighter; she puts the other, feels the cold wind of the night pass right through her, and shivers. She is not afraid anymore. Nothing hurts anymore. She jumps right through the window, and nothing hurts.

Time moves. The sun is black and absent and far; swallowed by the darkness of the night sky. The moon hovers above her, floating and dangling; as white as the pallor of a dead man's visage. The stars shine, scattered, and move away from their mother, afraid of its glow, its deadly light. The woods creak; the sounds of the forest are heard. She hunts, and whispers in the darkness. Her eyes lurk, attentive to the movement behind the bushes, behind the trees. Time moves, and she moves with it.

Beasts dwell around her, wanting, waiting in the shadows. Waiting for their turn to take something from her. The grass sways. The river runs in the distance. A shadow moves in the night. Her paws are buried in the mud, dirt gets inside her claws, and she runs through the forest; between the trees and the grass. In the darkness walks a man kissed by the snow, and nostalgic for the cold, she follows.

The man stops. Evil winds are brushing through the grass and leaves. A howl is heard in the heart of the forest. He is a wolf, and she is a wolf, and she is safe. Safe in his cold grey eyes when he turns around to look at her. Safe in his wide smile, in his _oh,_  so white fangs, when he recognizes her. Her father kneels in the mud when she runs to him in despair, and his arms surround her furry neck when a tongue comes out to lick clean his sweaty face.  For he is a wolf, and she is a wolf, and in the cold night they both howl to the full moon.

“Hush now, Child.” Says the grey wolf in throaty voice, when her howl becomes a sob. “You're with me. It'll be alright.” He says, and his warm fur shines under the starry sky, as a large mantle of silver threads. A tongue comes out to lick her back, and when it touches her temples it feels warm. “I'll be good to you.” Says the grey wolf, and the she-wolf trembles. “I swear, I'll be good to you.” He repeats, and she trembles again, for she no longer knows if he's telling the truth.

She swallows, and she is a wolf, and she is not afraid anymore, and nothing hurts anymore, but something deep inside her feels warm and soft and _human_. Human under the gaze of this frightening animal; too big to be a dog, but lacking the grace of a northern wolf. “You won't hurt me?” The she-wolf asks, and it's not really a question. It's a test. A trial. He must know, for his grey eyes remain calm, and that expression on his face, barely resembling a smile, does not fade. The grey dog only nods, waiving his tail. Even in calmness, he seems frightening.

“No, Little Bird. I won't hurt you.” Says the grey dog, and the she-wolf smiles, showing all her white pointy fangs. The she-wolf smiles, for she knows she is safe. Safe in the command that leaves her red ruby lips, as words spoken in winter breath, when a man, any man, dares to put a finger on her. Safe when he listens, and nods and obeys. Safe when he is hers, and she is his. For all her siblings once had direwolves; just as she once had a Hound.

But all stories must end. All ladies must despair. All knights must die. And she feels pain and feels loneliness; for he is gone, and she doesn't know when he'll be back. And she dreams with fire and blood; she dreams and longs for the past. Longs for the winter cold, and the calm before the storm. Longs for grey eyes and white fangs, and the dark growl of the hateful beast. Longs for big paws and grey fur, and cold hands kissed by the snow. Fierce man kissed by fire.

She wakes up in her bed, and she is human. Night has fallen where the king lands, and the ocher smells of war are entering through the window, making her wrinkle her nose. She puts a foot in the cold floor, and then the other, but she doesn't dare to stand. The grey dog is there with her, sitting in the same corner, in the same position. His grey eyes stare at her across the room; he is waiving his tail. He seems happy. Happy, but not smiling; his snout was not made to smile but to bite. Bite traitors and fools and sourthern warriors, and when the time is right, the hand that feeds him.

He is not human. He can never be human, where the king lands. But she's not afraid. Nothing hurts and she stands. She is fragile, she is made of crystal; and no matter how much she holds him and his vivid memory, she still breaks. Her cry is long and pitched when she falls before him, kneeling before the large frame; it goes forward in pale momentum to the highest note, it is presented in vibrant tone and then goes down, and it is heard no more. He holds her and stays silent, for between dogs only pups cry, and he is a pup no longer. For a dog cannot comfort in the way a man does.

“I was promised to another.” She says in a whisper. “I was promised to another, when Lord Bolton's bastard wrapped his cape around my shoulders.” She says, and he growls. She dreams with snow and a white dress and barking pups resting on her lap. She lies to herself again, and he growls.

She gives him a song, and he gives her a kiss. They both speak a promise before parting away. The grey dog is no longer where the king lands; the grey dog disappears in the night as the full moon shines in the horizon, searching for humanity. She watches him leave, gripping the warm cape that he wrapped around her, and she does not forget the promise.

She wakes up. Still lies her body in the marital bed, as casket devoid of life and breathe. The morning is clear and the daylight is near. Over the nightstand the candles are slowly extinguishing. She's alone again, it occurs to her, while circling her hurting frame with cold hands. Alone under the roof of a cruel man; with no family, no friends, no allies. No love. She's alone again, and she knows it. And she feels pain, and feels loneliness, for he is gone, and she doesn't know when he'll be back. For she longs for grey eyes and white fangs, and cold hands kissed by the snow. Fierce man kissed by fire.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by Sleep, Soap&Skin.


End file.
